Pop music from the 1950s and 1960s plays quietly in the background of Samson’s clothing store. The building is small and is relatively packed with clothing. The majority of the clothing consists of women’s clothing, but there are also various styles of menswear and children’s clothing for sale on hangers and racks. Daylight enters through the large glass windows, which look out onto a slow-moving Stockford afternoon street.

A short man with a stocky build and a black buzz cut is leaning forward over the counter. He is wearing suspenders and a white polo. The man speaks in a low, gruff voice to the woman standing next to him, at the register.

“Martha,” he says, “I’ve had it up to here with them boys. You’d think they’d have learned by now, on account of all the hubbub from last week, but hell, they got skulls thicker than cannonballs.”

Martha, who is wearing a red and black checkered blouse and a long white skirt, is looking out the large window. “Ohh, I don’t know about that, hun.”

“Where the hell are those little shits?” He sputters, turning around and beginning to pace behind the counter.

“Ohh,” Martha coos.

There are two others in the store: an old man with white hair who is looking at the store’s assortment of men’s dress pants, and a woman with long black hair who continues to look around the store uncertainly.

I sawnter up to the counter in a way that should be very unnerving to the store clerk. I walk with a kind of profound and deeply held confidence that if gone unrecognized could manifest itself into smugness. "Excuse me folks, but do you have any idea what there is to DO in this town? I'm still torn on if I should even bother getting a place of residence here. Ive been sleeping in my car, its a 2002 Chevy Tracker thats yellow, my mom decided itd be cute to put a tweety bird cover over the spare tire, oh how i hate that damn car! Anyway, whats there to DO HERE?!"

After the young man’s outburst, the people inside Samson’s turn to look at the speaker at first in silence. “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by The Four Seasons plays softly through the store speakers.

After about five seconds of silence elapse, the old man with white hair and the woman with long black hair turn away from the young man and resume looking at clothes.

“Young man, now I don’t know who you are, but I’m gonna have to have you keep your voice down, or I’m gonna have to have you leave,” the short man with the black buzz cut says. His belly presses into the counter. Martha is standing next to him, smiling as she absently looks through the young man.

“Ohh, you must be new here,” she says. She cocks her head slightly to the side. “I’m Martha Ackermann. This is my husband Samson Ackermann. The store is named after him.” She looks quickly at her husband and chuckles into her hand. She then looks back at the young man. “What’s your name?”

"Oh many apologies sir. I havent been around people for a few weeks because I've been on the road. Its apparent to me now that I have lost touch with reality and no offense there Sampson but its obvious you've lost touch with reality too. It's 2015. If you're going to play music from the stone age, at least have a teenager on roller skates offering me a malted."

"Plus, you didnt answer my question. What's there to do in town except get wasted and take home the town floozie?"

Martha continues to look at the young man, blinking hard from time to time. She looks quickly at her husband, then back at the young man.

"Excuse me, but I asked your name," she says again. "And I am not sure what kind of town you think this is, but if you really think that we're the type of people who would 'take home' a 'floozie,' well..."

She clears her throat. She does not say anything more but simply continues to look at the young man.

"Stakeford is a simple place, son," Samson says suddenly. He looks toward the two customers in the store, then back at the young man. "I don't know what you came here expecting to find, but one thing we don't have is patience for negative attitudes. We have enough negativity in this town already."

At this moment, two kids come running into the store. The kid in front, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, is wearing a blue sweatshirt, jeans, and black glasses held together by masking tape. His black tennis shoes are caked in soggy mud. The kid chasing him, who looks about the same age (ten or eleven) is carrying a snake in his hands. This second boy has short black hair and looks significantly like a cherubic version of Samson.

"Samson fucking Jr.!" Samson seethes from behind the counter. "What the hell are you doing? What is that you have in your hand? Is that a fucking snake? Get that shit out of here!"

"I see one of the negative attitudes in the town is your own, how professional is it to yell fuck in a store in which you own? Plus, isnt he a bit young to be hearing that type of language? Especially from his father?"

"Martha, Is that right? I'm sorry I didnt answer you earlier, my name is Cameron Johnson. Nice to meet you. You seem like the level headed one in the relationship. I appreciate you being here."

Martha listens to Cameron with a peaceful smile. She opens her mouth into a tiny "o" shape, as though to respond, and looks to her right, toward her husband. Samson's face is beet red, with a tinge of purple around the temples.

"You tryin' to tell me how to run my business and you're tryin' to tell me how to run my family?"

He looks at his wife, then back at Cameron. "Now, you got five seconds to walk out that door and get clean out of my store. If you don't, God help me, I'll walk around this corner and force you out. I have my rights."

Martha clears her throat. "I'm sorry, but my husband doesn't like that kind of talk. You really probably should go. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Johnson."

"I'm gonna get you, Reggie!" Samson Jr. shouts, as chases the sandy blond haired boy back out of the store. "And then they'll find you in the well next!"

"Where I'm from those threats are a penny candy and finding people who act on those threats is even more of a rare occurrence. You're a peacock Samson, you show your colors and put on a big show and that's the end of it. Martha, I was very pleased to make your acquaintance and I look forward to meeting with you more in the future. How you've stayed with that peacock man for so long is beyond me."

I leave the store with a walk of self assured confidence. Knowing that I was right and Samson was dead wrong.

By the time Cameron is outside of Samson's, the two boys have stopped chasing each other. The snake has somehow disappeared. The brothers are talking with each other in hushed voices. Their entire demeanor is a major contrast from the rambunctious behavior that had taken place inside their family's clothing store.

Reggie says something quickly, and then both the boys stop talking. They look up toward Cameron.

Reggie punches Samson Jr. on the arm. "Are you trying to get us into trouble? What are you saying?"

Samson Jr. spits on the ground, in front of Cameron's feet. "He doesn't even show emotion. He doesn't even care that a girl's head was found in a well. It's his first day in town, and he doesn't think it is at all weird that something like this happened?"

"He's probably just used to a lot of things like this," Reggie says. "Momma says there's a lot of murders in the city. It's weird for us, but I'm sure it's normal for him."

"Is that true, sir?" Samson Jr. looks skeptical. "Are you used to death? Does it no longer bother you? Have you ever killed anybody before? How did it feel when you--"

"Sammy, shut up!" Reggie hastily covers his brother's mouth with his hand. He looks nervously back at Cameron, mouths the word "sorry" and drags his brother away.

The two kids continue along the sidewalk, leaving Cameron standing in front of the clothing store. The wind whistles loudly, and a copy of the day's paper is blown toward Cameron's feet.